Shade's Memory
by Ash Gray Kitsune
Summary: The Skull Hill Ghost, despite what others might think, was never human...but he was never a demon, either. And upon meeting another of his kind, he wonders at the world he's lost a chance to see...


**Shade's Memory**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Bardic Voices/Choices series**

The Skull Hill Ghost he was called, and ghost indeed, he had become. Slain and bound to service for the Church on the godforsaken mound of earth that now held as many dead as any cemetary, he had little memory of his past life, the brutal images of his torture and subsequent death too overwhelming, too terrible to behold...until the night a young human woman, barely a stripling, came to his hill, and played. For him. From the first note of her fiddle, he had felt a welling of emotion fill the void of his soul, her own fear, pain, and determination breaking away his spell of terror, and he had rewarded this young Rune the silver she so rightly deserved, though he personally would have given her gold had it not been stolen from her at first chance. He had given her free passage and allowed her to sleep unmolested, safe in the warm morning light, while he had retreated to the burrow below, keeping his senses open in order to make good on his bargain, for she had not simply returned his emotions to him...she had returned memories, of what he was, and what he had once been. That had been over two years ago; he heard little in the way of gossip, save for the two Free Bards who'd come with Rune's story, and he had been happy to hear her married and with child. He hoped, sincerely, that she was well...and that was something he had not wished for anyone in decades. Not since that monster of an abbot...

But the Ghost's musings were cut short by a cry of pain; glancing around himself, he still forgot that he could be entirely invisible at times. Behind him came the cry again, and he turned, rustling a wind up out of the cool autumn air. The glowing orbs that made up his eyes beneath the cowl were impossible to see in this day's bright light, and they watched as a child, no older than young Rune had been, blundered up the hill, her back bloody and torn to ribbons, her face nearly as filthy, but as she straighted up, it was clear that she was no ordinary human. She was tall, clad in the poor cast-offs from some boy, he presumed, as she wore breeches and a flimsy shirt; easily six heads high, and as wraith-like as...as..._myself_. Her skin was sallow, her black-blue hair shorn close to her head, and one eye opened, the other swollen shut, revealing a bright purple iris and a vertical pupil. _Just as I...oh child of my kin, poor, battered one, you are so young, and still so new to this world. _That settled everything; he would no sooner turn a babe such as she away than he could the wind. He warmed the air around her, cocooning her body in a gust of heat. At her start, he made himself visible...and held up a hand in entreaty, to stay her fearful stumble back.

_"Please, youngling, calm yourself. I mean you no harm."_ She swallowed, painfully, he noted, and her uninjured eye was wide, pupil pinned to a sliver.

"Y-y-y-you're..."

_"Aye, I am. You're of the Virone, are you not?"_ A worried nod, and he dipped his head, feeling sorrow at her physical state. Even the most slender of the Virone, the shades that lived deep in the shadows of the many mountains ringing Alanda, were fit and strong, and never missed a meal. She was all ribs and spine, her hips the only thing keeping the breeches from falling down. She was barefoot as well, and her ears, meant to be slender and pointed, had been cruelly cut into a round shape, the better to mimick a human. Only her height, usual for so many of her kind, was the only thing that could not be explained away. It was terrible...and he bit back the anger, knowing that she would pick up on it. Instead, he built a shell of peace, and settled before her, drawing her to the earth carefully as he took note of all of her injuries. He was no great healer, but magic that killed could also sooth; and there was a great deal of power at his disposal. He took one of her hands, and enclosing it in both of his, he began a new sort of casting...

"Why did you save me, Elder?" Her voice was low, as musical as any Free Bard's, and the Ghost made a decision to send her away with as much as he'd given Rune, plus clothing filched from some of his victims over the years. Her eye had been impossible to heal; gouged badly, he had no choice but to take it out, healing the socket and eyelids so that she could bind it closed. Her other wounds had taken much of his strength, and as the moon rose, he knew that he was barely more than a whisp tonight. He did not begrudge her that for one moment.

_"You are kin; I would have been remiss had I not cared for you." _An Elder...yes, he supposed he was indeed that.

"But, you are bound to kill...what monster would do such a thing to the Guardian folk?"

_"A Churchman, my young one, and he cared not for my business, nor my destination. That, however, was deep in the past; I do as I am bound now, though I have the freedom to choose when those who are not sent from the abbey north of here come to this place. And as I said; you are of my people. I would sooner welcome the Hell the Churchfolk preach than hurt any who hail from my lands. Now, child...where do you hail from, and what happened to grant you this state?"_ She looked down at her lap, and he sighed slightly. _"I will know soon enough. Please."_ She heaved a sigh herself, and glanced back up at him.

"I was traveling with a group of Deliambrens when bandits attacked us seven moons ago. Briareo and the others escaped, but I was taken captive. They, in turn, sold me to a tavernmaster in Westhaven, who's wife worked me to the bone and beat me whenever I tired. I was forced to sleep in the stables, eating what table scraps I could scrounge; the cook and her husband cared for me, but they could only do so much. Then...then..." Her voice broke, and unbidden came a thought that he suspected originated from her. Rape, the humiliation of having her ears docked, and the whipping that had so battered her already ill body. "I was sold again, to an old man and his sons...they...they..." He shushed her with a hand, holding hers while she wept silently, and despite his ethereal form, he realized that this was the most alive he'd felt in more than a century. _Gods of my past life, please give this child the strength to go on..._ It seemed like a short time later, but the moon was much farther west when she dried her eye on the warm blouse he'd spirited up, and though she was still fragile, her grief and pain had settled, leaving her calm, quiet. There was nothing more to be said, but he said it anyway, knowing that dawn was near, and that any hunters for her would give up soon.

_"Child of my kin, soon we must part. You are healed, and when I vanish with the morn, there will be a reward for all your suffering. There is a village to the north that is safe for nonhumans, last I knew; act as a boy, and you will be able to buy enough supplies to hold you to Nolton. There, seek out the Free Bards; they are a varied bunch, but they will aid you in anyway possible. If you cannot find work there in some way...seek out Rune of Birnam, and her husband, Master Talaysen. They are the Lark and Wren, and will protect you on your way back home. I...am glad I met you, child."_ She stared up at him in wonder, and he had to chuckle silently.

"You are gracious, Elder, and kind. I thank you..."

_"It is I who thank you. I must leave, youngling...but one more thing. What name were you given?"_ She smiled, the first such thing he'd seen all night, and he basked in it.

"I was named for the river of our homeland...I am Hiara, daughter of Neela. Do...do you still know yours?" As the morning drew over the horizon, the Ghost vanished in a shimmer of wind, his laugh still warm and bright, and Hiara could barely believe the pile of silver and copper coins overflowing from where he stood. The wind kicked up again, and she was wrapped in that presence, all fear forgotten as his final words flowed over her.

_"Hiara, swift river of the mountains...I was Hiaran...Please, tell our people that. Tell our people that one day, their King will come home..."_

**I've always pondered the Ghost's real origins, personally, and I can see the Abbot deciding to use the most powerful person he could come across. So, created a species, a King, and a story out of it all. Maybe I'll write another one-shot, but that's probably all for now.**


End file.
